Phinn
by TheWitch'sCat
Summary: For those of you who just need some angsty, fluffy, a little bit lemony reading to re-live one of the sweetest love stories we've ever seen, I give you this.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all. I needed to write something fluffy and fun and just for me, and this is what happened. I hope you enjoy and leave some thoughts. The chapters are short, more like oneshots I guess.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

He was always Phinn, to her. To his associates, he would be Mr. Barnum. To Phillip, he would be P.T. But at the age of seven, when they'd first met, "Phineas" was too much for her tongue. And far too pretentious. So he was Phinn, the tailor's boy.

Those first years were a blur, a kaleidoscope of memories sliding past each other, each more colorful than the last. On sunny days, he pulled her up into the fat branches of oak trees and showed her the sky, made her see animals in the clouds. Phinn could paint with his words, and as they grew older she'd often tried to convince him to put them on paper. She imagined children would devour his stories, if only they were in ink. But Phinn couldn't stay still long enough to write. He was perpetual motion, personified. He picked the brightest flowers and presented them in messy bouquets before they chased each other off her father's estate and down to the shore. He dared her to splash in the surf even as winter turned the spray into icy droplets that stung her cheeks. He dove in, full speed, always. He gave her her first kiss, chaste and tasting like salt from the frigid sea.

And then, the year she turned twelve years old, she was swept away to a school in Massachusetts to learn the tedious and exhausting art of how to walk perfectly straight and never, ever think for herself.

The day he came back for her was a memory so clear and bright she could still smell the fresh roses the servants had cut and placed in the airy foyer. She hadn't seen him in twelve years. All she had was a stack of letters and some fantasy in her head of where he'd gone and what he might look like now.

Fantasy was wrong.

She'd imagined a vagabond - the same gangly frame and too-long hair. The same raggedy clothes, just adult-sized. Instead, standing inside her door frame, backlit by the setting sun, was almost a gentleman. She imagined he'd spent hours shining his shoes. She was sure the clothes were second-hand, but they were perfectly tailored. The gangly boy had grown tall and slender, with long, exquisite fingers that nervously clutched his father's top hat. He'd tried to tame his hair, but she could catch a hint of flyaway curl even in silhouette. Then he stepped into the foyer light.

His eyes hadn't changed.

And his smile was just as mischievous.

"Charity."

He spoke her name. A boy's falsetto had become a soft baritone. She didn't hear anything else that was said. She didn't hear her father swearing she would be back. Didn't hear Phinn making impossible promises. She just followed him. She took his hand and her hair flew behind her in white-gold waves as they ran. And after he dug in his pockets for the money to secure them a carriage into the city, she let her head fall against his shoulder. She watched the sunset and she let her mind wander, let her words become poems she never wrote down:

 _Some people long for a life that is simple and planned_

 _Tied with a ribbon_

 _Some people won't sail the sea 'cause they're safer on land_

 _To follow what's written_

 _But I'd follow you to the great unknown_

 _Off to a world we call our own_

She would follow him.

Anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He wouldn't touch her until they were married. He was determined not to have one thing about their relationship be less than honorable. He said he'd spent too many years asking silent forgiveness for stealing, for outright lying, said she would be the one thing in his life where there was no compromise. He insisted on absolute celibacy until they were wed, so she encouraged him to make it happen quickly. He charmed his way into a good suit and talked the dressmaker into selling them an unclaimed gown that was meant for some socialite whose groom never met her at the altar.

Charity liked the scandal of the jilted bride, even if she'd never admit it.

At night, as she slept in their drafty apartment alone while he found shelter where it could be bought cheaply, she wondered if he'd known the company of any women other than her. She wondered, knowing he was a street rat grown into a traveling entrepreneur, if he'd given in to the desire to have someone keep him warm at night. She knew, with absolute certainty, that if he'd turned on the charm no woman could resist him. Almost no man, either.

The celibacy wouldn't last long. They were married within a few days, just long enough to secure the apartment with the last of his savings and to take vows in the courthouse. She was very overdressed for such a venue, they both were, but neither cared. Staring at her with a level of adoration that was almost frightening, Phinn promised to give her a life beyond her wildest dreams.

Then he took her home.

The apartment became home, that night, in spite of the draft the threadbare curtains couldn't keep out and the floors that creaked under their feet. Their furnishings consisted of exactly one chair, an uneven table, and a bed. Phinn had stoked a fire, wiping soot on his brow, and then gave her a crooked smile. She dropped her wedding gown to the floor and his smile became desire.

Her memories of that night were warm, and fuzzy around the edges, like she'd had whisky coursing through her veins, even though she had been dead sober, having refused even celebratory champagne.

As an only child, she'd never been in bed with another person, much less naked, skin on skin. He was warm. So incredibly warm. His kisses were no longer chaste, and she thrilled in it, finding herself surprisingly forward. He tasted like cigars and the champagne she had refused to drink. He was hard and soft at the same time, a physique she now knew almost better than her own. That night, however, it was new. He'd grown strong, filled out from the wiry boy she remembered, and she wondered what sort of work he might've done to make him this way. Now, she knew, but that night, what had made him was still a mystery. She should've asked more questions before promising him forever, before putting on his ring, but she had no good sense when it came to Phinn.

So there were no questions that night. Even now, she could still feel his teeth graze her neck and his whispered apologies for being too eager. Like all first things, the memories could never be erased. They were part of her. The first touch of his fingers across her breasts might as well have been tattooed on her skin. She was branded, and she took him that night. Took his name. Took him into her bed and into her body. The fear of the unknown was quickly swept away in the rhythm of him, like waves crashing, and the unexpected feeling of power at how the scrape of her fingernails on his skin could reduce this man, whose confidence she'd never seen falter, to a state of trembling at the edge of control.

She whispered words that they would one day polish and weave into song. Words born between them in the most intimate moment, between two people for whom passion was their lifeblood, as important as air:

 _Don't fight it._

 _It's coming for you._

 _It's only this moment. Don't care what comes after._

 _Just surrender, 'cause you feel the feeling taking over._

 _It's fire. It's freedom. It's flooding open_

By the end of that night, and she clearly remembered the pinkish glow of dawn out the hazy windows, they had pulled the quilts from the bed onto the floor in front of the smoldering fire. She had shed all vestiges of modesty, not that she'd been clinging to them all that tightly. She remembered tracing the lines of him, following the dark hairs on his chest down to the cleft of his navel and further, his mouth on her neck again as she traced the inside of his thigh. She could still see him drop his head back, at the mercy of her curious hands, and still taste the salt on his skin as her lips found the base of his throat.

She remembered exhaustion, and fullness.

There was nothing more she needed.

Ever.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Caroline looked like her father from the start. Born a year after they married, she had a mess of dark hair and the most expressive eyes. She was Phinn through and through, and she took to the role of big sister with great pride. She created endless adventure in their tiny apartment, mimicking her father's storytelling while Helen, a year younger, listened raptly.

This was now Charity's world, these girls and the man who could still send her heart fluttering. So when he came home saying he'd bought a museum, she protested only slightly. The light in his eyes was contagious and she could almost feel his excitement. Phinn never could hide his feelings. His eyes gave it all away. His smile betrayed him. He was absolutely terrible at poker, and this was an even greater gamble. But she'd sworn to follow him anywhere, even to the point of begging for passersby to buy tickets to what was barely a museum, and then rounding up the outcasts of New York and promising them wages from revenue yet unseen when the museum became a show.

She would take the gamble, with him.

It took a month for word of his show to make its way through the city, to peak curiosity. A month of hoping and praying and promising. And then, the seats were full. She remembered the smell of the sawdust and of sweet-acrid lamp oil. She could still hear the hum of the audience and the raucous applause. She would never forget the look on Phinn's face as he threw open his arms and greeted a sold-out crowd. She would hold onto that for eternity. It was like he'd come home, found the place he belonged. He wore the ringmaster's jacket like a second skin, and lit up the room with the sweep of his cane and a flourish of his hat. He came alive, and it was almost too much for her.

She willed him to hear her wish for him:

 _Come alive. Come alive._

 _Go and ride your light._

 _Let it burn so bright._

That night, he had to stop her from tearing the bright red jacket off of him, pleading with her between fervent kisses not to rip the complicated stitching. He shed it himself, throwing it to the bedroom floor in spite of how much it cost. That night was burned into her memory, like turning the page in a story to a glorious illustration. As their girls slept, exhausted, she reminded him she was no longer a blushing virgin and that she was more than a housewife. He was magic personified and she wanted to capture it. She remembered they pulled down one of the curtains that night, tossing clothes into a pile and testing the integrity of the window frame, grateful for the privacy of a wooded lot.

Later, still basking in the thrill of the performance, she'd traced his face, earning a familiar crooked smile, his amber eyes made darker in the firelight. Their earlier activities had mussed his hair, ruined the showman's coif, and their legs were twined under the quilts, no secrets between them.

"It's unprecedented, how much I love you." She could barely utter the words, her heart was so full.

She remembered he hadn't responded in words, but with a look that said he wasn't sure he deserved it. So she made love to him again, slowly and deliberately, holding him tight against her body. She knew, after that night, the world would want to claim him, and she needed to remind him to whom he belonged.

To each other.

They belonged to each other.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The night of Jenny's premier in New York, Charity wore her best dress. She took extra time brushing and pinning her hair. She made sure the girls looked pristine. She knew there was a good chance there would be photos taken that might make the front page of some of the papers. This was Phinn's night, and she wanted, more than anything, for it to be perfect. For her, he was enough. Their children were enough. But she knew what this meant to him and so she strove for perfection.

She was bubbly with joy until the lights dimmed and Jenny's voice filled the echoing space. Resonating off the gilded walls, her song was so pure, so perfect that Charity could see it soaking into the guests. She saw people hold their breath and strain in their seats as if to catch just a little more of Jenny Lind. Then, she saw Phinn. From her box seat, she had a clear line of sight to where he stood just offstage. She could see him watching, knowing he'd never heard Jenny sing before tonight.

Her heart caught in her throat, a painful constriction.

He was staring at her, at Jenny , in a way that went beyond his normal exuberance over finding a new act. He was staring as though the world had stopped spinning, as though his breath had been stolen. He was looking at Jenny the way he'd only ever looked at her . And the stab of jealousy in her gut was so sudden, so strong she nearly hissed. Charity, whose name literally meant to give selflessly, suddenly wanted to claim what was hers with a ferocity that scared her.

How dare he look at her that way.

How could he?

He embarrassed her that night, when he chose to open up old wounds and argue with her father in front of everyone. She left early, not sure whether she was more hurt or angry, and pretended to be asleep when he crawled into bed.

And then he told her he was leaving. With Jenny.

She tried to make him stay, tried to convince him that a concert tour was foolish, at best. But he was determined, smitten with his own idea and most likely Jenny herself. And a determined Phinn would not be persuaded to change his mind. But she tried, tried until the morning he left.

"You don't need everyone to love you, Phinn. Just a few good people."

He had no reply, and the carriage was gone within the hour


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The newspaper came the same morning as the notice from the bank. Phinn hadn't come home. He hadn't been home for months, but the fire the night before had kept him away another night. She'd been ready to forgive him for leaving, to tell him how hurt she was, how lonely, but forgive him, until the papers came. The newspaper photo of him kissing Jenny combined with the notice of eviction in her hands was too much.

The imagination can be incredibly cruel, she discovered that morning as visions of him taking Jenny to bed filled her mind. How long had it been going on? Did he hold her the same way? Did he whisper the same words and make the same promises? The memory of the way he'd looked at Jenny before they left swept over her, and she ran for the balcony and vomited, her hands trembling.

She packed the girls and was almost gone when he showed up. Covered in soot and clearly exhausted, the sight of him broke her heart again. If she let go of the anger, she would lose control. So she held onto it and yelled awful things at him. He swore he never loved Jenny, but she'd seen the way he looked at her.

"You don't have to love someone, to sleep with her. I've seen enough of this world to know that," she spat.

She threw the eviction papers at him.

Before storming out the door, she threw back at him, "The truth is you never loved any of us! Not her, not me, no one! Just yourself and your show!"

She left him and all his dreams in the empty house.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

He lost everything.

She knew it, and part of her was glad. A part of her agreed with her father as he lectured her about how he had told her this would be her fate and that Phinn had met exactly the end he had predicted. Her father was smug in the knowledge that she had, in fact, come home.

The rest of her ached. Underneath the anger was a sadness threatening to consume her.

She stared at the ocean day after day, remembering how Phinn had once dove, unafraid, into the icy sea.

She remembered his promises.

 _A million dreams is all it's gonna take,_

 _A million dreams for the world we're gonna make._

She was staring at the ocean the day he came back. She sensed someone behind her and when she turned, there he stood, haggard and rumpled, with pleading eyes. She could've denied him the chance to apologize, even to speak, and walked away from the whole thing and never forgave him if she hadn't looked in his eyes. Even after all these years, he'd never learned to hide his feelings. Most men learned to be stoic, to wear a mask of tolerance and occasionally smile when required. She thought, eventually, Phinn would do the same. But he'd never lost the boyish wonder, the heart-on-his-sleeve gaze, the most genuine smile she'd ever seen, and the sincerest of tears.

She broke again, because she still hurt. And she was still angry. But she couldn't really hate him.

It was nice to hear him say she was right about the tour, for him to apologize, to swear nothing but misunderstanding had passed between him and Jenny. She'd always known he had big dreams, dreams of climbing beyond the status into which he was born. But she needed him to understand, she would follow him anywhere, but first they had to be enough for each other. She only wanted the boy who'd charmed her at seven, who'd promised her the world at twelve, and who thought, for some reason, he had to actually give it to her as a man.

She didn't want P. T. Barnum, the savvy businessman. She didn't want The Greatest Showman on earth. She wanted Phinn.

So she told him, "All I ever wanted was the man I fell in love with."

And with a kiss that curled her toes, he promised her that.

From now on.


End file.
